


A Cure

by Predatrix



Category: Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell (TV), Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell - Susanna Clarke
Genre: Anal Sex, Humour, Love Spell, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-10
Updated: 2016-02-10
Packaged: 2018-05-19 10:44:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,352
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5964439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Predatrix/pseuds/Predatrix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kinkmeme fill for "Mr Norrell casts a love-spell on Childermass". </p><p>Mr Norrell decides that he doesn't like it when servants leave. He especially wouldn't like it if <i>Childermass</i> left. Luckily, he's a magician, so there's something he can do about that.</p><p>The trickiest thing was how to differentiate this from my previous "spell goes wrong" <i>Disinhibition.</i> Thanks to the people who helped with this!</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Cure

Mr Norrell hated upsets in his household. When Michael had married Eliza, and gone to find another position, Norrell regarded this as a form of minor treachery. In vain did Childermass explain to him that whether or not Eliza had been comfortable with getting the sharp end of her master's tongue three times a month or so, and whether or not Michael had made his peace (as a modish valet) with dressing a man who changed his clothes according to fashion as little as possible, they were both young enough and good enough servants to want to make an impression on a different sort of household.

A few weeks later, Hurtfew took on Lucas and Hannah, and Mr Norrell quizzed them narrowly about their ambitions (and Childermass had conversations with them in low voices, for some reason). 

It worked out quite well, Mr Norrell considered (eventually). But when, a decade or so later, one of the housemaids (whose name Mr Norrell had forgotten) went off with the man who looked after the horses, it brought on his nerves again, in a different way, even though he was pleased with Davey and Lucy when they took them on.

For if a change in the household was other than a once-in-a-lifetime event, he was utterly horrified by the thought that Childermass might leave him. After all, the implication that Michael and Eliza and the others had free will and could choose to leave was that anyone could.

Who would make sure his books were un-tampered-with? Who would ride out after books? Who would do the accounts?

Who would interpret between him and other people? He was confident enough with words, he could even manage to be subtly rude and sarcastic in letters, where he could work something up beforehand, yet when it came to face-to-face meetings he tended to get something wrong in some mysterious way unconnected with words. Sometimes Childermass would explain, and sometimes Norrell would even understand the explanation, yet the next time he had to meet someone the same thing would often happen. Childermass didn't seem to mind explaining, and Mr Norrell paid him very well, because Childermass was no ordinary servant or man of business.

Who would make sure in passing (if he was there) that Mr Norrell's morning gruel was of the right consistency and temperature? Or that his sweet chocolate was placed on the table by the fire with his day's letters so he could enjoy the warmth of the fire and having something to read without being dangerously close to the books? Or that his towel, bedclothes and clothes were soft enough? 

Who would be cheerfully rude without somehow making him mind, and stop him taking things too seriously? Who would reason him out of his crotchets, and read poetry to him when he felt too ill to go near his books, yet he needed something to occupy him. A poem was a bit like a spell: although it did not have to make something happen, it had to sound right in a condensed and powerful way.

The problem was evidently free will. After all, Childermass was well-suited to his job, well-paid, experienced, given an intellectually-stimulating environment, and would probably be much worse-off both financially and practically if he were to succumb to a fugitive impulse to leave.

It would only make sense to look after him to ensure such a mishap never happened. Since the problem was marriage, all Mr Norrell needed to do was ensure he never fell in love with any of the servants (in his mind, Mr Norrell avoided such locutions as "the other servants": Childermass was _sui generis_ ). But what if he developed a passion for somebody else? That might be awful! Or, restrained from the affections of the servants, he might suffer the pangs of unrequited love, which would be _dreadful!_

There was nothing for it. Childermass must fall in love with someone safe, someone who had absolutely no desire to make any unwanted changes. 

Childermass must fall in love, in fact, with him. It would even make him safe from the question of unrequited love, for nobody had so much respect, esteem and affection for Childermass's excellent qualities as he himself did. He himself would be ideally-situated to love Childermass back, and even at the thought he felt the most delicious responsive quiver when he imagined reaching up to Childermass for a kiss.

That was settled. It was the most expedient, practical and useful way of handling the whole matter, and now the only question was of discovering which spell to use to cure Childermass's possible restlessness with love.

Sadly, he put aside his beloved Sutton-Grove, who would be of no use in discovering a love-spell. He cast an eye to the tall and looming books on their high shelves involving faery magic. With a fairy-servant or two, the matter would be simplicity itself. But, no. He had long ago resolved not to trouble with such matters for anything which might be considered selfish, and although he had every hope of achieving a pleasant result for Childermass as well as himself, he was intimately concerned. Anyway, he was certain not to risk such magic unless nothing less than England herself was at stake.

Picking up and putting back books took most of the day.

The volume he eventually selected was almost forgotten, a small, scruffy volume of hedge-witchery more than proper magic, with pages that had gone through at least one rainstorm. He sniffed. There were herbs between the pages, and smears of jam, garlic or...blood. Did that mean it had been kept in a kitchen for a century as a working magic book? Or did it mean the witch had been somehow _feeding_ her book? If so, he had never learned--never needed to learn--the parameters for witch-magic, kitchen-magic.

None of the spells were properly-titled, or properly-measured, but eventually he found one which, reading between the lines, might suit.

He carefully cast a minor purification on himself, that his skin and his thoughts would not smell of exactly the sort of measured modern magician he was. He took his glasses off. He smeared soot under his ears, eyes, nose and lips to prepare his senses for whatever might happen.

He rested a hand on the page, which was as distinctly alien to his personal style as could be managed. His mind objected in the strongest terms to any such intimacy with a book that might just possibly mark or harm it.

Thinking about Childermass, he went to the window and opened it.

The sky was very large, and tasted of longing, a longing between himself and Childermass that a man under wide skies might find a home in a small warm hearth where he was.

Had he merely managed to cast the spell in the wrong direction and increase an esteem for Childermass that he himself already possessed? But in order to work well at all, it would have to work both ways. It was nowhere in his plans to turn a cold face to Childermass's affection.

How did love work?

Possibly he should have considered that beforehand!

He understood it to involve the writing of poetry, and letters. Childermass wrote a good hand, and if he was up to writing up the household's records, and all those of Mr Norrell's letters that he found it too tedious to write himself, then he should be well up to that task!

There was looking at each other. Mr Norrell (who had not quite noticed how much time he spent in conversation looking at his feet or into thin air) imagined that this should be perfectly simple.

There was desire to touch the beloved. He liked the thought of Childermass briefly brushing fingers with him handing him a letter, or casually straightening his wig.

Perhaps he might find himself momentarily tired in the library, and want to rest his head on Childermass's shoulder? Or perhaps he might talk Childermass into seeing just how nicely the man might scrub-up out of his usual drab, muddy clothes? A really good coat showing off his broad shoulders, or a fine pair of breeches for those muscular legs. Or he might want to get all the tangles out of Childermass's long hair. He might even talk the man into accepting a scented pomade--with Mr Norrell combing it in, and leaning close to the heady scent made even headier by the scent of Childermass himself.

Then Mr Norrell had Hannah draw him a bath, and went for a nice long soak where he could deal with the unseemly distraction that had arisen at that point. Twice.

He was looking forward to this.

 

 

His master had cast one of his damn-stupid spells again, Childermass realised disgustedly.

Realising it was very personally directed at _him_ filled him with a sense of sick betrayal.

He did not have very much to his name; if he were to be turned off for any reason he would leave with little more than a month's pay, the clothes he stood in, and his cards of Marseilles. He did not have much time for himself, either. Well, Mr Norrell was open-handed in giving him as much time as he asked for for travel, which sometimes meant he could go and have a holiday and return refreshed, and frequently meant he could take time off whenever he needed to. It was truer to say that he did not have much time that _belonged_ to him.

Freedom of head and heart was inestimably precious, because it was his. Did not Mr Norrell _know_ that? Didn't over a decade of acquaintance tell him that?

He snorted, and swore, because the question drew its answer behind it as neatly as a thief follows an inattentive rich man. Of _course_ Mr Norrell wouldn't realise why it was such a terribly bad idea. He was the most innocently-selfish human person Childermass had ever met, and his command of the language of the heart was worse than Childermass's French. Which was saying something.

If he'd had a fit of nerves when Meg and Frank left, he would have been perfectly capable of thinking "Childermass might leave, and it's better for all of us if he doesn't".

Childermass sniffed at it. He had a good sense of magic, not that Mr Norrell ever thanked him for it. It wasn't as simple as "stay here!" even if it had probably started that way.

Some very strange impulses were arising in him. He had enjoyed reading poetry; his mother had had little patience for such "nonsense", but when he found some, especially if he found a person to read poetry with, to taste the syllables as they rolled over his tongue, he enjoyed it. He had gone so far as to think he'd fallen on his feet in his current situation. Norrell was as permissive with the un-magic volumes in his library as he was restrictive with his particular passion, and sometimes seemed to enjoy listening to him read them out. Somehow, reading poetry out _for_ someone seemed to unlock the sounds and meanings in a way that reading for himself did not. He had even found Mr Norrell affectionate and interested at those moments, not so much looking into his eyes as listening with attention.

But he had never in his life wished to respond to those pleasant moments with writing a poem. He had not thought he even knew _how,_ let alone he would be writing one out in his best hand, on good paper, and rhyming "periwig" with "very big" and "dearest master" with "thinking ever faster". Then he took the charcoal he used for his sketching and drew a soft-edged, blurry, frankly quite _idealised_ version of Mr Norrell, with larger eyes and--what?!?--more kissable lips.

He'd had the odd fanciful moment about his master, and always promptly quashed the idea in favour of Being Sensible.

Now he was writing love-poetry, and love-letters, to Mr Norrell, to the tune of about one of each a day. It was horribly undignified. Not that he suffered for his own dignity the way his master did--Childermass sometimes thought Mr Norrell's respectability extended three feet in front of him when he entered a room and demanded obscure sacrifices--but being at someone's beck and call had always filled him with a passionate desire to maintain what personal freedom he could. It was hard to do this when his spare time was now filled with contemplating Norrell.

The only amusement he had was stacking the evidence under his mattress and watching his master look helplessly for some sort of proof. He always took it to _heart_ so when his spells did not work! (Childermass's own heart squeezed unpleasantly at this). Never mind, having to worry about what his spell-gone-wrong might possibly have done might teach Mr Norrell a lesson. Nothing else had done, mind, but something should! 

**My Dear (Darling) Sir!** he wrote, concentrating on his most elegant hand, and his most elegant words, and furiously conscious of how much time he was wasting on this rubbish. **I am sure you have wondered** (crossed-out) **Perhaps your mind occasionally turns to** (crossed-out) **Let me reassure you that I have no plans to leave** (crossed-out) **If you were to invite me to your bed I should be the happiest of men** (true but not especially helpful; crossed-out). 

He sighed. He had no particular doubt about his ability to give or get pleasure in bed. They could both have a happy week or so until Mr Norrell took the spell off, and then everything would go rapidly to blazes, as he retrieved his natural personality (and anger) while Mr Norrell faced up to knowing nothing about affairs. Particularly those affairs.

In the library, he took care not to brush Mr Norrell's hand with a finger while passing him a book, not to let his hand shake while handling him tea.

Mr Norrell looked sad.

Childermass wanted to put a hand on his shoulder to reassure him, as he could have done even last week, and remembered he could not be certain the impulse was his own.

"Is there something the matter, sir? Have you mislaid one of your books?" he said, in a tone that only a more adept man could have told from actual respect and sympathy. He felt angry all over again; he would naturally have felt those emotions toward a ruffled Norrell, until Norrell had spoiled it. Unless he had never felt any true warmth for his employer, and it had all been Norrell playing with his emotions?

No. He was somewhat relieved to find a cool certainty in his heart. While his employer was frequently troublesome, and there were days on end when he appeared nothing but a bloody nuisance, there was some natural affection there. Not that that made this right!

But then after a few days, Mr Norrell increased the spell.

Right. If Mr Norrell wanted love-smitten Childermass, love-smitten Childermass he should duly have. 

He was certain Mr Norrell did not know enough to notice the particularly nasty grin on Childermass's face.

In the mornings, Childermass no longer rode out. He carried Mr Norrell's sweet chocolate up to the library, just as he knew his master liked it, precisely the right sweetness and temperature.

With a little addition.

"Childermass," said Mr Norrell mistrustfully, "what is...this?"

He held it up between two fingertips.

"A sonnet, sir."

"Yes, I can see that!"

"Would you like me to read it out to you, sir?" said Childermass soulfully. "It did take me rather a long time to write."

Long time or not, he was sure it was less than an inspired effort. The scansion was weak, and the rhymes awkward.

Childermass read it out. He derived a good deal of quiet pleasure from the faces Mr Norrell pulled as he tried to appreciate Childermass's poem. The rhyme of "underplay" with "without delay" was particularly awkward.

"Will you sit here with me, Childermass?" said Mr Norrell.

Childermass tried to construe both his natural emotions and how Mr Norrell would have affected them. Sometimes the female servants had got hold of silly novels, and read bits out in silly voices. That helped. Childermass pulled a wide, unnatural smile and sat down beside him. "You honour me, sir! I cannot conceive how I was never sensible of your charms of person and style..." _Doing it too brown!_ he cautioned himself. 

Mr Norrell smiled uncertainly, not as though the compliments gave him particular pleasure.

"Although I was always aware of your wisdom and power," Childermass went on.

Mr Norrell gave a definitely pleased smirk.

"Shall I run you a bath, sir?"

Mr Norrell looked at him. It wasn't in Childermass's normal range of daily services. Other people could do as well or better at that.

"Thank you, Childermass," he said. A child could have told he was trying to avert discovery by pretending that all was as it should be.

Childermass drew him a nice hot bath, and undressed him, and made sure his favourite scented soap was within reach. 

"Would you like me to wash your back for you, sir?" He watched his employer blush, and squirm a little. He was beginning to think the man fancied him. Well, he'd thought before there was something there, on both sides, but only Mr Norrell could have cast such a spell for what he would convince himself were entirely practical reasons--while not noticing that the underlying reason was his own love and desire for Childermass.

He washed him particularly tenderly, admired him as he stood up pink and warm from the suds, and dried him all over with a very soft towel. 

"Would you like anything more, sir?" he asked. He was sure that Mr Norrell _would_ in fact like something more, but did not know whether he was allowed to ask for it, or indeed whether he had in fact been offered it.

Mr Norrell sighed. "No, thank you, Childermass, that will be all." He looked particularly weary, and Childermass's unreliable mind informed him that Mr Norrell's day-to-day work was tiring, and would leave him lonely. That he was fairly sure that Mr Norrell had cast the falling-in-love spell for no inimical purpose, and was probably entirely prepared to love him back. That he himself wanted to give Mr Norrell a cuddle, just now, and see what could be made of the half-erection just stirring and possibly unnoticed by its owner. Not that it was a good idea, and not that he even knew what response it would get.

He bowed respectfully, and left the room, handing Mr Norrell the shirt, breeches and banyan he wore after he bathed when not expecting company. He might have helped him on with them, but he thought maybe Norrell needed a moment to recover his composure.

The next day he stepped up his campaign by adding a love letter:

**My Own Dear Sweetness!**

**I can no longer Keep to Myself the Particular Esteem I have for Your Person, Your Intellect in its Tremendousness, and even Your Heart.** (He paused gloomily at this point to think "if you have one"). **I am sure that Somebody of your Perspicacity must have some idea of my Feelings, which are Lately almost Unbearable!** He knew that Norrell had pretty-much no perspicacity of the sort. Intelligence, he had plenty of that, but almost no observation or quickness-of-mind. This remark was by way of seeing whether he could after all be naturally shamed by the thought he'd caused Childermass to feel deep, painful, somewhat-frightening feelings, and then left him alone with them. **I Care Deeply for You, Sir! I Long to Help you more Thoroughly with your Work, to Ease your Daily Cares, to Smooth the Furrows of your Learning from your Brow or Warm your Bed with my Affection. I would do Anything to Delight you, sir! Your affec. (and adoring!) Servant, JOHN CHILDERMASS.**

It didn't sound like him at all, which was about right. If anything was to come of his master's most cuckoo idea yet, it would have to involve Norrell learning why such a spell was bad, and involve whether or no Norrell truly _did_ cast the spell wanting the love of John Childermass himself as opposed to some sort of Childermass-automaton.

Blotting and preparing the letter, he added it to the pile of post ready to go in with Norrell's morning chocolate.

It was going to be entertaining to watch, anyway.

 

 

Childermass looked different, although Mr Norrell did not know how. He felt a breath of excitement--could the spell be working?

Sipping his chocolate, Mr Norrell found the only unexpected letter in the pile. He put it carefully to last, and worked up his usual disobliging replies to local social engagements ("I am sure you need no accompaniment from a man so retiring as I am."). He had never understood why they kept trying until Childermass pointed out he was wealthy and unmarried.

He smiled: since Childermass had come the letters had decreased, as well. Childermass always made sure the tailor or the boot-maker or the farrier had their dues paid before they even needed to send a bill. 

He was still smiling fondly when he reached the bottom of the pile and slit open the letter from Childermass.

Oh. Oh! It was just what he thought he wanted, and it was all _awful!_ It was love, which was what he had asked for, but it couldn't sound less like _Childermass._ "Esteem"? "Tremendous Intellect"? "Perspicacity"? Perspicacity in particular was worrying. Childermass, with his sly smile, would make endless fun of him if he ever pretended to the sort of human knowledge Childermass had. That was what Childermass was for, to know the things he did not.

Childermass "warming his bed" with "affection"? Well, he _supposed_ that would be nice enough, and it was certainly better than dislike, but he had rather thought that (if he had the inclination at all) Childermass would slap him on the bottom and offer him a sound buggering, which was a much more arousing thought! But the affection would be lovely afterwards, though. The idea of Childermass cuddling up with him ought to have been delightful, and he couldn't understand why he was getting an unpleasant wobbly sensation in his middle. It wasn't as though the idea hadn't crossed his mind from time to time.

Childermass signing _anything_ "your affec. Servant"? It was a form of words, certainly, but Childermass was careful of his precarious position close to but not quite in domestic service. That was another thing: Childermass had calmly drawn him a bath and helped wash him the other day, quite as though the servants weren't there to do it, and he rather thought Childermass had...offered himself. He'd have enjoyed that, certainly. He thought Childermass would, at the time. What if Childermass were to regret it later? Did that mean that causing Childermass to feel that way was a wrong thing? And of course by the time he'd worried about that the moment had passed. He hadn't been certain he wasn't imagining it, in any case. The workings of the human mind were a complete mystery to him.

"Childermass!" he said sternly.

"Yes, sir?" sighed Childermass, from rather closer than he was expecting.

Mr Norrell jumped slightly, but made a recover. "What is the meaning of this?"

"Sir, I scarce know how to speak my mind," Childermass went on. When had Childermass _ever_ been unwilling or unable to speak his mind? This was utterly appalling!

"Childermass, you are free to speak." He had, after all, caused this, however inadvertently. The least he could do was not leave Childermass to suffer. Poor Childermass had written that his feelings were "unbearable", which since he wasn't as touchy as, say, Norrell himself, implied that it had hurt him. It was nowhere in his plans to hurt Childermass!

And, of course, he was going to love the man, however difficult it might prove with this strange new version of Childermass.

"I cannot but think of our difference in station, sir, yet I must love you! As if I were some green girl throwing myself at your head."

"Childermass, I have no idea what you are talking about. When could I ever have given you the idea that a maiden female--or any sort of female," Mr Norrell added hastily, sure that experienced ladies would be especially unwelcome in his company, "--would be a matter for me to consort with, or deal with in any way?"

"Oh, sir! My darling sir!" breathed Childermass, and gave a good impression of almost going to his knees in a near-swoon.

If he had not known about the love-spell, Mr Norrell would have started to suspect him of mockery at this point. Surely Childermass--his own dear Childermass--had too much dignity and strength-of-character to swoon!

He would have expected Childermass, lead actor in most of his saucier dreams, to know his way round a kiss, and that it would be just as well that somebody did. Instead, Childermass kissed with his eyes closed, blankly waiting. Letting Mr Norrell choose. Maybe he did not truly wish for this? Maybe he was hardly aware of what the spell was persuading him to do?

What would Childermass do when he was back in his senses? What if Childermass went for him, eyes blazing, and knocked him down? He found the idea disturbingly arousing, for a moment, which made him think, "do I really want him to do that?" But the question brought its own answer: no he did not! But what he _did_ want was a real Childermass, a Childermass who was at least not sleepwalking through his master's kiss. He wasn't even moving his tongue, let alone anything else.

Mr Norrell drew back. "Childermass," he said uneasily, "do you want me?"

"Oh, _yes,_ sir! I'd let you do _anything!"_ Childermass bent over a convenient chair in illustration.

Well, Mr Norrell hadn't thought about it that way round, but it was certainly tempting! Except he had no idea how to, which was possibly why he'd imagined Childermass taking the lead.

And that clammy, cold feeling inside him was still there when he imagined accepting what Childermass was offering him.

"Sir? Don't you want me?" said Childermass sadly. 

"Of course I do, Childermass!" _But I want you, not this!_ he thought, even as he went up to him, put a hand on his shoulder and bent to kiss his cheek.

Childermass undid his trousers and shoved them down. His legs looked as lovely as Mr Norrell would have expected, and Mr Norrell wanted to look at the rest. He reached to fondle and rub and stroke, moaning a little, and Childermass spread himself ready to be taken.

If anyone had asked Mr Norrell at any point what he would do if Childermass presented himself ready for a fucking, whichever way round, he'd have assumed "accept gratefully". His prick remained straining to accept.

Instead, he gripped Childermass's shoulder, and said, "This isn't you. And it's my fault. I'll do whatever you think's right, even if I have to let you leave, or you have to hit me, or I never see your naked body at all. It makes me feel ill to think of you showing me affection if it's not real."

He was expecting anything from pleas to recriminations. He was not expecting Childermass to stand up quite normally, pulling his trousers up, and say, "Well, thank Christ for _that!_ If I'd had to write any more sonnets it'd have turned my wits. Or my stomach!"

He looked just as he always had.

"Not that we won't be having words about this tomorrow," said Childermass, "but I think you've learnt your lesson about making people love you."

Mr Norrell knew he must be looking guilty. He gulped. "How did you know?"

"Apart from you giving me funny looks, and the mysterious desire to write you poems and love-letters which I've never had before? And I'd always have thought you'd like me to show you a bit of affection, but suddenly today you look as though it'd curdle your stomach if I did?" 

"I'd like nothing better. If I knew it was you, and not just because I want you to," said Mr Norrell. "Today you were kissing as if you weren't there at all."

Childermass grinned. "For future reference, _this_ is what me kissing you feels like!" he said, suddenly darting at Mr Norrell and giving him a deep and enthusiastic kiss. There was a good deal of tongue, and some teeth. Mr Norrell wondered if he was going to get his tongue back, at one point. Throughout, Childermass held him close.

When they stopped, Mr Norrell said, "That's a relief. It feels like you. I really am sorry."

"What were you playing at?" said Childermass.

"I wanted you to keep. Those other people went away, and I thought it would be much the most satisfactory arrangement if you stayed here."

"And do you see what you did wrong?"

Mr Norrell's lips tightened. It had been a perfectly practical idea until it mysteriously went wrong!

Childermass sighed. "Why do I put up with you?"

"I pay you excellently. I admire your intelligence. I l-like you," said Mr Norrell simply.

"Yes, and that's not enough!" snapped Childermass.

Mr Norrell sat down, shaking slightly.

"I don't think those things are wrong," said Childermass. "They make a good start. But what d'you suppose I value that I have here?"

Mr Norrell thought. "As close to running your own estate as a man of your class will ever come? Brewer? What I said to the Duke of Devonshire on your behalf?"

Childermass said, "Strange as it may seem to you, running the estate of a magician who'd rather stick his head in a book than keep things going has never been one of my great ambitions. The other two things I do value. But you haven't got it right."

Mr Norrell looked a question.

"I don't have many possessions, though I have all I need. I don't have much time belonging to me, though I know if I need time to do something you will readily give it me. I do have some feelings for you, though you drive me mad half the time!" Mr Norrell stood up to kiss his cheek. "The most precious things I have are the freedom of my thoughts and feelings, and knowing I can speak my mind whenever I need to," said Childermass.

"Oh!" Suddenly Mr Norrell began to have an idea of quite what a bad thing he'd done, or tried to do. "I really am horribly sorry," he said. "I'm not even just sorry because I'll never get what I wanted."

Childermass smiled at him more gently. "Not going anywhere, am I? I promise I'll talk it through if I ever do think of going. I wouldn't spring it on you. I reckon I'll be here for a while. Anyway, when I thought about it, I realised you were probably doing it because you were in love with _me,_ and hadn't noticed."

"Am I really?" exclaimed Mr Norrell. He considered the question. "I suppose I am. How curious! How do you feel about me?"

"Strongly," said Childermass. "About half the time I want to strangle you for being an idiot. The other half I want to kiss you, and chase away all the mice and all the street-sorcerers in Yorkshire."

"So you love me?"

"Doesn't mean you can take advantage of me," said Childermass sternly.

"And it's not because of the spell?"

"I've been aware of it for a long time," said Childermass.

Mr Norrell felt distinctly cheered-up. "Thank you. For reassuring me, and returning my affection. I'm sure I can get used to not minding never getting the other thing, if you don't go."

Childermass raised an eyebrow. "The other thing?"

Mr Norrell looked at his feet, and muttered, "Sorry!"

"How often do I have to kiss you before it counts as an offer?" said Childermass. "You could have had me in the bathroom. You could certainly have had me over that chair."

"I thought it wasn't real. In fact, you were _telling_ me it wasn't real, just now!" objected Mr Norrell.

"The love-spell wasn't real. Me lying there and not responding to your kissing me wasn't real--I'm not that passive about it! But otherwise, you could try asking."

"If you're 'not passive", why were you bending over for me?" asked Mr Norrell.

"Let you into a secret," whispered Childermass conspiratorially, "it's more fun if you don't lie there like a dead fish."

Mr Norrell squirmed. The desire had come roaring back to him, now that he knew the real Childermass was interested.

"Have you got any, um..."

"My god, you _must_ be randy if you're up for it in the library!"

"I don't want you to think better of it," Mr Norrell explained. "Can I go on top first?"

"Always imagined you'd like it the other way," said Childermass.

"I probably shall," said Mr Norrell. "But having seen you bare your arse and your thighs for me, I'd just like to have at you right now." He absently rubbed himself, as if to tell his impatient cock-stand that relief was on its way.

Childermass smiled at him. "Come on, then," he said amiably, and bent over the chair. He pulled out a pot of salve from his pocket, and the certainty that Childermass had been at least somewhat willing all along went straight to his prick.

Childermass resumed his earlier position over the chair, only it was better because he was telling Mr Norrell in no uncertain terms what he wanted done, plenty of fingering to work him up. Mr Norrell kissed him firmly on one buttock and slapped the other, then greased him, worked him with his fingers, and Childermass moaned impatiently. 

"Is that right?" said Mr Norrell. 

"Right enough," said Childermass. "Put some on yourself, and you can get in me now."

Mr Norrell groaned a little. 

"You're doing very well, sir," said Childermass.

Mr Norrell was glad to hear that. He had very little basis for comparison. The first thrust nearly undid him entirely, and Childermass was making soft, pleased murmurs as he kept going, and Childermass was so unbelievably _tight_ that he felt it was nearly skinning his cock (but somehow in a good way!). He grunted, and went for more, and suddenly Childermass hissed something, and then said, "Again!" and Mr Norrell said, "I can't remember what I did the _first_ time!" 

Childermass said breathlessly, "Sort of _twist_ it!" so he tried to sort of _twist_ it and it made him sweat, made him pant, his toes were curling, he drew back again and the world outside Childermass was too cold, so he managed that twisting thrust again, groaning and shuddering, and said, "You're half-killing me with pleasure!"

So Childermass said, "Come on, then!" and Mr Norrell realised dimly he had permission, said something composed entirely of vowels, and spent deep inside Childermass.

"Was that all right?" he asked, as soon as he'd recovered enough to slip out and wipe up.

"Good start for a beginner," said Childermass, sitting up and displaying a quite impressive erection. 

"Oh. Sorry. I think I was a bit over-excited."

"Not bad on a first time. Question is, what you do with it." Childermass nodded at his own prick.

Mr Norrell said, "Shouldn't that be up to you?" so he ended up in the still-rather-damp chair with Childermass firmly thrusting between his legs, feeling enjoyably whorish and dissipated and as though, despite not being able to get hard again so soon, the memory of this was going to be a frequent visitant to his fantasies.

Childermass said, "That's it, that's it!" and came.

Mr Norrell almost complained at being cleaned-up, which was very unlike him. But he'd enjoyed the feel of it, and now he wanted a cuddle and a good sleep. He muttered something about Childermass being most unfair making him do it in a library chair.

"Blamed for everything!" muttered Childermass, but he managed--Mr Norrell had no idea how--to have them both clean-ish and dressed-ish shortly, and soon they were both in Mr Norrell's bed for a lovely cuddle and a lovely sleep. Mr Norrell burrowed down and enjoyed it.

 

 

 

"Show me the spell. I'm not afraid you'll do it again," explained Childermass, the next time they were both in the library. "But I'd like to know the book if I happen across it in my wanderings."

Mr Norrell got out the little book. He even showed Childermass the page in question.

Childermass's eyebrows shot up. "Well, you may be as fine a magician as may be, but you'll never make a cook!"

"Childermass, what are you going on about?"

"Not so much a grimoire, more a grandam's receipt-book and herbal. I've seen it before."

"Childermass!" exclaimed Mr Norrell.

"The one you performed was a very competent cold-cure," said Childermass. "I _thought_ I was coming down with something the night before you cast it, and the next morning I was fine."

"Childermass, if it was a cold-cure--which I am not admitting!--how do you account for the love-spell?"

"Perfectly simple, sir. You're as good a magician as you think you are, and your will and intent can overpower what you get on the page. I'd been starting to worry about how you were going to manage as a practical magician; turns out you can do fine if you're motivated enough."

"Oh dear," said Mr Norrell faintly. "I am going to have to be even more careful in future than I thought."

And he made a mental note, for the nth time, to stick to the Sutton-Grove. Look what happened when he didn't!

Then he looked at Childermass. He wouldn't have missed that particular happy accident for anything!

It had certainly cured the loneliness he hadn't admitted to having.


End file.
